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Sian's story part 2 - You Don't Have to Axe Me Twice


jfraser

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I’ve learned some important lessons in my life. One of those lessons is this: pumps, no matter their designer, are among the worst choices you can make for running from homicidal maniacs through woods.

 

I mean, granted, that probably seems obvious. Having had occasion to attempt such a feat, though, I can confirm the theory true.

 

Here’s what happened: I left the cave and found myself on a the side of a rocky hill looking over a rugged valley. It was quite beautiful. A path to my left led downward, so I picked my way among the rocks – pumps aren’t great for rocky paths either, FYI – to a narrow…well, I guess you could call it a road. Not a paved one – it was really just packed dirt - but it was wider than a footpath. It climbed into the hills to my left and down into the pretty valley to my right.

 

Having nothing to go by, I turned right and headed for the valley, only to find the road petered out at a shallow brook that burbled happily through a copse of trees. Lovely – my very first choice in this weird hallucination was a dead end. Not a bad metaphor for most of what followed, really.

 

I turned around and headed back up the path only to hear a rustling in the trees to my right. I glanced that way just in time to see a large hairy man brandishing an axe that seemed taller than me. I was surprised and heartened – perhaps this nice gentleman could tell me how to find…shit, I had already forgotten the names of the places Parman had suggested. Well, maybe he could just point me to…

 

“Skyrim is for the Nords!” His voice was amazingly loud and the surprise of it stopped me in my tracks. It is only by sheer luck that my adventure – which is truly a misleading term, in my case – did not end there, cloven in twain by some random fucking Nord, because he stumbled on an exposed root on his downswing. The axe slammed into the ground next to me with a deafening clang and several bright sparks. I yelped my way out of my reverie and started to run.

 

This is where the pumps come in. And come back off, because after only a two steps, I knew I was destined for a B-movie “girl running from manic randomly twists her ankle and falls prone” moment. I took a moment to slip my feet out of them but, alas, they fell from fingers numb with panic and I was forced to leave them behind. Fortunately, the packed dirt and grass made for reasonably easy barefoot running.

 

The maniac was covered in metal armor (my brain processed this information as I ran – I didn’t really have time to study it) so, although the pause to slip off the pumps lost me a couple precious seconds, I steadily widened the gap between us over the next hundred or so meters. I was just thanking my parents for making me take track in high school (our relay team took third in states) when I heard howling.

 

Fucking wolves. Naturally. A pack of them poured off the hillside to my left so I took a sharp right and careened into the trees. I heard snarling and yelling behind me, so I risked a glance back to discover that the bumbling axeman had run right into the pack. You know those stories about man-eating wolves? They exist in Skyrim. He flailed at them and killed a couple, then went down under the rest, who busily tore into the parts of flesh that they could get to. Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. What kind of fucked up world is this?

 

I didn’t wait to see the conclusion of that story – I turned and continued through the trees, picking my barefooted way along the path of least resistance for maybe ten minutes before I came upon a road. To my right I could make out a huge stone edifice – with several people wailing on each other with swords and axes and…bright lights of some kind. To my left lay what looked like a peaceful village. One of the easier choices I have had to make.

 

Turns out the town was Shor’s Stone, which was one of the places that fucker Parman had told me to look for the person he wanted me to kill. It was a quiet town, kind of shabby. The only thing that really stood out to me were the naked people. Not all of them. Just here and there, a naked woman with her hands manacled behind her back, another with free arms but an shackled legs. Naked men near the small mine up the hill. All of them wearing iron collars. It wasn’t too hard to ascertain the meaning – wherever I was, slavery was alive and well. Just fucking perfect. To this world’s credit, there didn’t seem to be any racial boundaries. The slaves were of all hues and shades. So, I guess that’s something. Many more women than men, though.

 

More fortune: Lysha was in town. I found her cooking something over an outdoor firepit. Of course, I didn’t know it was her, so I almost blew it from the get go.

 

“Hi!” I said, trying to sound cheery and not like I had just run barefooted through a forest from a guy with a giant axe. “I’m looking for someone named Lysha? Might be a witch or something?”

 

She gave me a glare that could have stripped varnish off a table. I suppose I should mention that Lysha is one of those people who are just clearly badass. I don’t know if I could take her even now.

 

“A witch? I don’t know who you are, but if you do not recant those words right this moment, you won’t live to speak again.” She said it in a quiet conversational voice that made me want to hide.

 

I held out placating hands. “I’m sorry! I don’t know your vernacular here! Magician? Sorceress? Um. Magic-user?” The fact that she was wearing plate armor would have been my clue that these were unlikely, had I known anything about Skyrim. But, of course, I didn’t.

 

“Perhaps you should forgo attempts at giving people titles. That is the province of lords, which…” she looked me up and down. The edge to her tone softened to something more akin to amusement, which was an improvement, “…you clearly are not.” She sighed and stirred the pot on the firepit. “Who are you and why do you seek me? Does this have anything to do with that idiot Parman? You seem to have a similar intellect.”

 

Ouch.

 

“No need for personal attacks. Parman did send me. And I agree – he is an idiot.”

 

“It is as I thought. So, what do you want of me? I assume he sent you to kill me, but you do not look equipped for the task.”

 

“He did, yes. But I’m not going to.” I rushed over her raised eyebrow and the unintended implication that I could have killed her had I chosen to and added, “I was actually hoping you could help me.”

 

“Help you with what? I am not going to kill the fool, if that is what you are asking. He is harmless. Stupid, but harmless. I am not a murderer.”

 

“No, nothing like that. I think he…brought me here. Assuming I’m not hallucinating.” Still up for debate, but I had never had a hallucination last this long or be this cohesive or…well, real. I hadn’t really thought about it, having been too busy running for my life, but somewhere along the way, my brain had decided this might not be a hallucination after all, and had decided to act accordingly. Nice of it to let me know before this.

 

Lysha raised both eyebrows this time. “He brought you here?” She looked around with a wary expression. “Where is he? He wouldn’t dare show his face here!”

 

“What? Oh, no. Not to this town. To this…land, this world. To…” I looked around myself, taking in the stoneworked, thatch-roofed buildings and the leather and fur outfits, the swords and bow and axes that seemed a natural part of everyone’s accoutrements. “…I don’t even know where the fuck I am.”

 

“What?” Lysha’s gaze snapped back to me, as intense (although without the menace) as the first time. “What are you saying?”

 

I shrugged. There was not a better way to phrase it. “Just what I said. I’m not from this world. I thought I was dreaming, but…”

 

She waited a moment into my pause before prompting, “But?”

 

I shrugged helplessly. “But…it’s all too detailed for a dream. Hell, I almost died on the way here.”

 

“This is not a place for the faint of heart, I grant you. But I do not understand. How could this be a dream? If you are not from here, where are you from? No,” as I began to respond, “better this: what do you remember before you arrived here? Anything?”

 

I frowned. “Of course! I remember my whole life! Well, back to when I was three or so.”

 

“And these are memories of a different world? Thus for my amnesia theory. Tell me, what were you doing just before you…came here?”

 

“No, it’s not amnesia. I was at a kegger, at my college. A party. We drank a lot.”

 

“What college is this? Winterhold?”

 

“No, I go to the Ohio State University.”

 

“I have never heard of that. What happened at this party?”

 

“The usual. Drinking, flirting. Lisa and Mar had just set up the beer pong table.”

 

“I understood the first part of that. Go on.”

 

I shrugged. “Not much more to it. I was talking to friends and there was a…sucking feeling. Then I was…here. Or there. In the cave. With Parman ranting in my face.”

 

“Ranting, was he? What did he say?”

 

“He…called me a demon and told me to go kill his enemies.”

 

For the first time, I saw Lysha look surprised. “A demon?” Then an expression of understanding crossed her face and she laughed. “Divines! That explains it! He was trying to summon a demon!”

I frowned. This joke was over my head. “Yes, that much I figured out myself. But I am not a demon. How did I get here?”

 

“The word for ‘demon’ in Dwemer is roldor. The word for ‘student’ is roldoe. I don’t know why you in particular, but…”

 

I covered my face with my hands and spoke through them. “Great. My whole life has been upended because of a fucking typo.” I sighed, lowered my hands, and gave her a pleading look. “How do I get back?”

 

Her face smoothed to a look of pity. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I am not a…” she laughed a little “…witch or sorceress or magic-user. I suggest you head north to Windhelm. I have a friend named Pare who knows a thing or two about magic.” Then she stepped back and looked me up and down. “Although I’m not certain you will make it in that…outfit. And why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

I tried to explain but she was already going through a trunk set by the wall of the nearest building. “Here, take this. And these. And you will need a weapon. I have an…ah, here it is.” She turned back and handed me a large bundle of thick leather and a sword in a worn leather sheath.

 

I thanked her and promptly cut myself on the sword, which led to a lesson in the basics of sword fighting. She also filled me in on current events, though none of it made a lot of sense. A civil war, white gold something or other, storm troopers or something. By the time she had taught me how to get into my new outfit, my head was spinning trying to keep up. I’ve always hated politics. It’s even worse when you’ve never heard of any of the parties involved.

 

Not that it mattered – I was going to go to Windhelm and talk to Pare and go back home, leaving this entire mess behind.

 

Don’t feed the bastards – they’ll just want more

 

Next Chapter

 

Previous Chapter

 

Start at the Beginning

Edited by jfraser

1 Comment


Recommended Comments

Quite entertaining once more (with the typo indeed echoing with the future summoning, and being a funny twist ^^). The dialogues, though of a certain length, were fluid in a very fluid and reactive fashion, which made them quick an easy to read. Appreciating the everlasting humor (saw what you did with the title :classic_tongue:) about the pumps, the NPCs behavior, and Skyrim's world whereabouts, since they're a mix of the game's absurd sides but turned into derision by a realistic revisit. Nice chapter ! :D

 

Malicia : « That Sian gal is very right about pumps. There are people who wear them in Skyrim though. Like her ->ooPQQm6O_o.jpg

               She keeps walking everywhere with heels, even roofs. So she fell, and got injured.

 

               That's what happens when you don't listen to expert advices. :classic_ph34r: »

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